


Ever After

by theshinycrackerjack



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshinycrackerjack/pseuds/theshinycrackerjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has moved on—he’s living in a whole different country with a new job and a new flat. It's been years since the incident. He’s just fine. It’s all just fine. It’s June 15th, and John wonders about the stuff of dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Constructive criticism appreciated! This fic was very personal for me, and this was my way of dealing with a few things. Writing Johnlock has apparently become my stress-relief. I've been in the fandom for a while as a lurker, and I'm glad that I'm finally starting to give something back.

 

It’s June 15th today, and it’s a chilly Saturday. I sit there in front of my desk, cradling my piping hot mug of tea, blowing intermittently. It’s chamomile, not my favorite, but I didn’t feel like going out and Sophie didn’t feel like taking pity on me today. She had a rather trying doctor’s appointment and her son came to ask for money again yesterday. These recent events seem to have put her in a sour mood.

 

I’ve started wearing gloves again all the time; my circulation nowadays is rubbish. Sometimes I think I’m getting arthritis and I feel old. I feel like that keeps happening more often these days. I haven’t been sleeping that well lately, been a lot of tossing and turning. Almost as bad as back when I dreamt about the war. But I guess this time it’s not as bad, since I don’t dream anymore. Well maybe I do, but I never remember. Sometimes I consciously try to remember. But it’s useless. All I get is a vague fuzziness, maybe a color or part of a building or a sliver of a face. Sometimes not even that, just a vague unsettling feeling infringing on my mind. Those are the days I give in to vice. 

 

My vice has always been smoking, something I thought that I’d abandoned successfully after the war. But a few weeks after the incident, I broke my promise to Harry; I fell off the wagon. It was just one cigarette a day at first, but pretty soon it was more than a cigarette a day; it was more like a pack a day. When Harry came for Thanksgiving armed with a half-drunk bottle of champagne and a roasted turkey from the nearest grocery store, I was not prepared. We don’t usually even celebrate the holiday since it’s not a British holiday. The flat reeked of smoke and she visibly recoiled when I opened the door. I hadn’t expected her. How was I to know that she’d fly all the way to California just to spend Thanksgiving with me?

 

I don’t really feel like moving very much today. I could go for takeaway at the corner bistro again, or I could try to weasel Mrs. Chilcott into making me her special soup for hangovers (it really is the best split pea soup I’ve had on this side of the pond). Mrs. Chilcott is the lonely old widow who lives three doors down. Her kids never call and so she’s decided to take me on as a bit of a pet project. Her smothering is sometimes too much, and then I briefly wish that she’d just get a cat instead of bothering me. Then I feel bad for the rest of the day until I proceed to bake her cookies to assuage my guilt. She makes watery coffee, and I try to choke down my own lackluster attempts at baking. No amount of shortening or sugar can mask the distinct burnt taste of the cookies. I remember them and frown—maybe I don’t want the takeout after all.

 

I drum a little melody into the wood of the desk, willing myself to come up with something to do. I could just nestle into the faux leather of my chair, and kill time with the latest installment of ‘The Life and Times of Timothy Moore.” It’s the story of a young man and his imaginary friend, a seven-foot tall magical bird named Lulu. He’s the only one who can see the bird, and it’s his best friend. It’s got all of this bright plumage that changes colors depending on its mood. Yellow is for surprise, red for anger, blue for sadness and green for envy. There are other less obvious ones—like teal for embarrassment and orange for anxiety. They get into all kinds of antics. Nothing too extreme, mind you. Just ordinary events made extraordinary because of the bird. When Sophie first catches me reading it, she teases me mercilessly. She says I’m much too old for children’s books, that it’s just silly flightless fantasy. I hide the books from her after that afternoon. I stashed them away in the back of my closet behind a few stacks of old medical journals. I’ve since taken to displaying them on my desk. I’ve got all the editions, even the deluxe, hardcover ones.

 

Tired of my own indecision, I make a lazy attempt to tidy up my flat. On my way to the bedroom I hear a faint tapping noise. There’s a bird that’s taken to pecking at my bathroom window for bits of bread. I feel like it’s terribly confused. It might be a sparrow or some kind of finch. I’m really not a bird person. It’s all blue and white and a bit gray and it’s got these little white eyebrows; it looks perpetually judgmental. I am greeted to huge beady eyes, unwavering and unnerving. We have our little staring contest for a few moments before I cave and open the window. It hops in a few inches and I rummage around in my pockets for a spare biscuit. There’s a half-eaten pack of saltines at the bottom of my slacks. I fish it out and the plastic wrapper makes that crinkling noise I hate so much. But I set it out for the bird, and it approaches brazenly. It sits there, in my bathroom, pecking assiduously—quick little jabs at the biscuit. It doesn’t pay me much attention at all. After it’s done, it hops outside again and I close the window.

 

I settle back down in front of my computer amidst a sea of unwashed coffee mugs and barely skimmed research papers. There’s a job application lying towards the top, freshly printed just yesterday. It’s for a position that I’m probably over qualified for—coordinating a clinical trial for a new diabetes drug. I pick up the sheet of paper and give a perfunctory glance to the text. It’s set down almost immediately, shuffled under stacks of plates next to my stupid broken printer.

 

My inbox is littered with spam, four invitations out to dinner with various colleagues from work and an email from my mother telling me to call more often. My boss is at a conference in Phoenix for the next couple of days, and he won’t respond to my emails about an upcoming clinical trial I’m somewhat interested in participating in. The deadline for the paperwork is Monday and I’ve already sent three emails (politely) asking for his cooperation. I’ve grown used to the way Mr. Jones does things, but I still feel the ring of muscles in my neck tighten rapidly, like I’m being fitted for a noose every time he ignores me.

 

There’s a familiar sting of regret, and a little bit of anger at my current predicament. I’m in a rut and there’s really nothing much I can do about it. Sure I could get another job, maybe move to another city or just a different flat, but I’m not sure it’d really help. I guess that’s the root of the problem—I’m no longer sure that the grass is greener elsewhere.

 

I’ve set aside some time to reflect on the week’s events, just a few hours. I’m 41 years old and I feel like I ought to. My therapist always says I ought to (it seems like they always say that). Sometimes I wonder why I pay him so much money to tell me what I already know. I wrap myself in Mrs. Chilcott’s afghan and remember yesterday while nibbling on a biscuit from my pocket.

 

I woke up at 6:15 on the dot, jumped in the shower for 15 minutes and then stuffed a refrigerated bagel into my mouth. I’ve long given up trying to make a proper cup of tea in the mornings. I’m just not awake enough for it.

 

I headed off to work, catching the 47 all the way to King Street and then I walked the next few blocks to the hospital. I can’t drive a car anymore because of the tremors in my hands (usually just my left, but sometimes my right if I’m agitated). Everything’s become old hat by now—I tossed a jaunty wave to the security guard at the front, gave a perfunctory nod to the nurses at the front, and continued on to my office on the third floor. It’s my fourth year as a general practitioner at Kaiser Permanente, and I have a set of regular patients—some of them young, most of them old, most of them very boring.

 

One of my regulars is Mrs. Jones, a chronic hypochondriac with imagined exotic symptoms but very real dementia. She is usually accompanied by her son, Anthony, an accountant and antique enthusiast. He has a penchant for collecting old knick-knacks like tiny tea sets imported from Germany and intricately detailed Chinese porcelain elephants.

 

“How are you feeling today?”

“…I’m fine.”

“What did you do today?”

“Today?”

“Yes, today.”

“Steven needed his shots.”

“Who’s Steven?”

“He’s …you know. He’s our cat.”

“And how old is Steven?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Is this Steven in the picture there?”

“Yes.”

“And who is this?”

I pointed to Anthony, a few years younger and a few pounds lighter, but it was still distinctly him. He was clad in one of those horrible garish Christmas sweaters; there was an ecstatic reindeer literally bursting out of his chest.

“That’s …that’s Derek.”

“Derek?”

Anthony didn’t bat an eye. This was expected.

“Derek’s my son.”

In reality Derek was her grandson, not even Anthony’s son, but Michael’s (an estranged brother who moved to Japan years earlier).

“No, that’s Anthony,” I responded carefully.

“Who?”

“Anthony,” I repeated.

“Anthony?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Mom. You remember me,” Anthony coerced. He held her hands lightly, rubbing light circles into her palms.

“Right. It’s our Anthony. Of course.”

 

It was a dismal morning peppered with minor disappointments. The clouds were hanging low in the sky, lying in waiting for just the right moment to turn sour. I went to the local deli on Sutter to get my customary ham and cheese sandwich, but they were all out. On my way I checked my mobile absently, noticing a missed call from my landlord. Ought to call him back on my way home. I scrolled down slightly past a series of wrong numbers and soliciting calls. There was a call again from a blocked number, maybe. Regardless the number doesn’t show up. I get one of those every once in a while.

 

I ate lunch at my usual bench across from the hospital. I unfurled my sandwich from its paper prison mechanically, eyeing it with mild distaste.  I’m not partial to chicken salad, too much mayonnaise for me, but I tried not to color my day with more negativity. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad at all. I bit into my sandwich with too much gusto; the crust speared into my gums instantly. I winced.  

 

When I got back from lunch, Sarah dutifully sent up a few more patients, informing me that she’d already penciled in follow-up appointments. I felt my lips pull back into some semblance of a smile, but she didn’t really acknowledge me. She nodded and smiled out of habit and went about her business as usual.

 

At the end of the day I locked up my personal office, stored a few papers in my briefcase, and headed out. All of my acquaintances had already headed home for the day. Sarah was still manning the front desk, as nonplussed as ever.  

 

The train ride home was excruciating. There were too many elbows and limbs all in the same packing tin. I briefly toyed with the idea of taking the bus home, but then I remembered that the bus I need didn’t run at this time anymore. Been a lot of budget cuts lately.

 

At home in flat 2134, I rustled up a frozen dinner of Stouffer’s for one. A casual skim through the paper accompanied bites of pasta and veg. I don’t really pay attention to current events anymore. It’s either about nonsense politics or casualties from a war or vapid local pieces (this time it’s about some brown-nosing high schoolers who’ve started some organization to combat homelessness). They probably won’t even raise any money, and if they do it’ll probably just lay around in desk drawers filled with stray gum wrappers and old report cards.

 

I headed to bed early. The monotony of daily life is exhausting. I brushed and flossed after washing up. My floss got caught in one of my back molars, and I poked around my mouth for a solid four minutes before I got it dislodged. The sink was covered in water, since I tended to splash water everywhere when I wash my face or my hands. Either that or else the sink is simply too small; it’s about the size of a standard shoebox.

 

That used to drive Sophie crazy; she hated the state of my flat. It was either too small or too dingy or too dirty for her. But in general Sophie and I had a good run. We made each other laugh over cheap wine and spaghetti from a can. We watched old re-runs of Top Gear, because she knew that it made me feel more at home. She never pressured me to talk about him, but get more than three drinks in me, and that’s all I’d talk about anyways. She smacked me her newspaper every time she caught me eating red meat—she said that it was slowly killing me and that I ought to know better (since I’m a doctor, after all). But one day her key wasn’t hanging up beside mine; she had simply packed up and moved out to the apartment down the hall. Our split wasn’t amicable and it wasn’t nasty either. It was like the two of us had simply grown weary of pretending to be together. We never really talked about it afterwards, but we pass each other in the hallway and we smile ‘hello.’ It’s force of habit. Some days it’s a grimace masquerading as a cordial greeting, and sometimes it’s genuine.

 

That was yesterday. The phone hasn’t run once today—not my mobile nor the landline. Not even Mrs. Chilcott. She knows how I get on this day. I shuffle over to check the pantry for food—there’s a half-full box of Wheaties and a horribly shriveled apple in the back behind a box of baking soda. It’s not great, but it’s also not the worst thing I’ve ever found in a pantry. I end up calling for takeaway from the Great China Palace, a place with pretty decent kung pao chicken and egg rolls soggy with grease. They also know that I don’t like getting fortune cookies. I still remember the last time I cracked one of those open. I had been on a date with a lovely younger lady from the hospital. My lucky numbers had been 1, 8, 9, 5, 6, 15. The message had been something about how it’s prudent to live in the moment, not in the past. I called our date short and spent the rest of the night holed up at home with a scalding hot pot of tea and re-runs of FRIENDS on TBS.

 

My mobile starts trilling in the din of silence.

 

My stomach flutters briefly, wavering between apprehensive and pensive. I’m in the middle of a bowl of cereal, a habit I’ve devised to keep myself from gorging on the takeaway. By the time I reach the funny pages, it’s decided quite firmly on ‘nausea,’ and I can’t finish my cereal. My breakfast clings to my insides like a leaden paste. I can feel it when I swallow, a viscous bolus waiting to commit vile mutiny. Sophie has always said that I wax melodramatic when I’m distressed. Though that’s not entirely true, as I added a touch of color to my blog entries back when I lived in London too, and I was hardly that upset at the time.

 

It’s already on the third ring, and the noise is grating, blaring in the silence of the flat. Each ring sends my heart vaulting to the front of my ribcage. It’s probably the wrong number or maybe Harry, stilted and awkward or that redheaded kid from downstairs, Oliver, who always helps me finish the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He fills in all of the pop culture references for me, and I fill in the obscure ones about politics or literature or science. Or it could be my landlord finally calling back to schedule a time to fix the faucet in the bathroom. I lick my lips quickly. It’s probably nothing. But then I think about unfortunate fortune cookies and that strange phone call that I get every few weeks or so (the one from a blocked number or a payphone or somewhere overseas) and the feeling that I’m being watched. Sophie used to say that I was just being paranoid, that I was just dealing with the lingering tension from my past antics. She actually used the word ‘antics’ to describe the last ten years of my life.  

 

I cast a brief look outside, breath slightly hitched. The clouds are swollen and slightly more ominous today, like they might burst at a moment’s notice. I feel a twinge of sympathy for all the commuters out there who’ll probably be caught in the rain.

 

But in all honesty she’s probably right. It’s probably nothing—just more of my fantasy nonsense again. I’ve taken my gloves off now to wipe my sweaty hands on my trousers before fumbling for the phone. It’s hardly a day for something revolutionary to happen. I haven’t washed my hair yet today, and I smell like mothballs and old cat (I still have Mrs. Chilcott’s hand-knit afghan draped across my shoulders). But maybe, just maybe this time it’ll be different. The music will swell and the girl finds her first love in the sea of faces at the airport, the cripple manages to take a step, a ghost walks the streets of London. Just maybe. I’m holding the phone in my bad hand (the one with the tremors). My thumb is hovering over the buttons, but I wait a fraction of a second too long. The call goes to voicemail. I instantly I regret it. Suddenly I’m disgusted with myself.

 

I pull on a heavy jumper and decide to go on a walk. For some reason that missed call triggers a whole slew of emotions I’ve denied myself. I’m angry—at myself, at Sophie, at that stupid mailman who always leaves my packages out in the rain, at Mrs. Hudson for never calling, and at Mrs. Chilcott for her horrible coffee. I’m angry about anonymous calls and missed text messages and cold takeout containers and endless fights about the same goddamn things. I grope for my keys blindly, a mess of energy and bumbling rage. My mobile looks at me, silent and judgmental. For a hair of a second I consider just leaving it there, but I pick it up and shove it into my pocket along with the keys.

 

I fly out of my building door like a bullet. I’m now two streets away from my house, powering on down Fourth Street like a bull, when it happens. The sky cracks open, and the newly liberated rain escapes at my expense. I try to find refuge under a nearby awning, since my arms make a rather poor makeshift umbrella. I feel rather than hear the call. I answer it almost immediately, as soon as I feel the inklings of vibration from my pocket.

 

“Hello?”

 

The rain is louder than my breathing, and my heart has decided to make a break for it right through flesh and bone. And between these three discordant lines of music, a man rises from the dead.

 

I press a button on the phone to end the call, and I stand there with my hands by my sides. They’re helpless and dangling, like some careless bait for fish. I briefly notice that there’s a little stain of paint on the sleeve of my jumper, neon green from that time I helped Sophie’s nephew paint an alien for art class. My loafers are too new and they pinch my feet uncomfortably. Somehow I’ve already managed to scuff them on the sides. They’re this ugly dark brown color, but they were the only size 10 the store had at the time. I have on a pair of lounge pants littered with creases and a button down shirt that’s a size too big for me. Everything feels out of sorts—too big or too small or too plain or too downright ugly. All of a sudden I feel all out of sorts; I have tunnel vision.

 

I head back home slowly, deliberately. I know that I’ll be soaked by the time I arrive, but that’s alright. I’m more concerned about the aftermath. What do I do now? It’s all unbelievable to me. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me. I trudge up the stairs of my building, and I toy with the idea of pretending that I never got the call. But I know that I can’t do that. I spare a passing glance for my (probably cold) takeaway food left out in the rain. I had forgotten all about it. The number 2134 is a welcome sight for only a moment, before I realize that I have company. It’s not the takeout man at all.

 

“It’s not Madame Wu’s, but I think it’ll do.”

 

It’s a face and a body and a voice that I’ve long since forgotten. Familiar and impossible at the same time. I want to say something clever, something to redeem myself in his eyes, which makes no sense. I’m not the one who needs to be asking for forgiveness. But that’s not even close to what comes out of my mouth.

 

“It’s raining. I’d left without an umbrella just to go walk around the corner and now I’m soaking wet. The faucet doesn’t work and I hate my job. I can’t seem to find other work, and Sophie sort of hates me.”

 

Just saying it aloud makes it all true. Sherlock blinks at me, mouth slightly open. He probably didn’t expect that. Hell, I didn’t even expect that. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. I abruptly find myself with an arm full of Chinese takeout (three containers in all). He plucks my wet keys out of my slack hands, jimmying the lock. He’s already on the fourth key on my ring before I step in.

“Don’t know what key’s the right one,” he mutters.

“Here just..just let me—“

“No, no. I’ve just about got it

“Sherlock just stop it—“

He backs off immediately and I wrangle the keys away from him carefully, thrusting the takeout back into his arms. I open the door, set my keys down on the kitchen counter, and breathe out deeply.

 

I make a perfunctory attempt to tidy up, a mess of nervous energy. Now I really wish that I’d actually bothered to keep my flat clean. There’s a ghost in my kitchen, sitting on my sofa, examining the fresh linens I’ve strung up across the front room. I want to ask so many questions, but each one is only a partially completed thought flitting in and out and gone into the ether. So I end up asking nothing. We talk about the weather and he talks about his travels—snippets about foreign royalty and delicacies native to Japan (or South Africa or France or even New Orleans). We waffle around in pleasantries and half-baked stories designed to entertain; I never thought that this is how we’d end up, filling the space between us with words with no meaning. It feels wrong, like we’re strangers. He leaves at half past eight, in the middle of an episode of _Two and a Half Men_. I change into my old ratty robe as soon as he’s gone. He’s gone and left his umbrella here, one of those small pocket ones. I only notice it when I go to open the window and trip over it. I kick it off to the side at first. Then I feel bad and fetch it again, placing it carefully on the coffee table between a copy of “The Life and Times of Timothy Moore,” and a used plate.

 

I make a cup of chamomile tea, careful and slow, letting it steep for ten minutes exactly before I remove the tea bag. I put it directly on the counter. I don’t really care if it stains the tile. I head out onto the fire escape with my favorite blue mug (the one with Mickey Mouse emblazoned across it). It’s stopped raining by now, but the metal is still slippery. I slosh a good portion of my tea out as I try to make myself comfortable, hissing slightly. I pull my robe around me and find a lone cigarette lying in the right pocket and my lighter in the left. It lights up with some difficulty, and I populate the little cubicle of space with carcinogens and smoke out there on the fire escape. The dampness from the stairs starts seeping through my clothes. I shiver violently. The stars are actually visible tonight, really visible, like tiny little beacons. I play connect the dots with them absently, making all kinds of patterns and shapes with a lone cold index finger. My cigarette dangles lifelessly between my fingers. I’ve only taken a few drags off it before I plunk it into my blue cup. The tea tasted like shit anyways.

 

“Shit.”

It feels good to swear. I guess I don’t do that enough nowadays.

“Fuck,” I say to the night air.

“Bloody hell.”

“Bloody wanker.”

“Idiot.

“Fucking idiot.”

 

A lady pops her head out of a window above to frown at me disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” I say. I’m half-laughing, so I don’t think she believes me to be that sincere. She’s right. When I get back inside, I open up my web browser and type in an old url. It’s for my old blog from London, the one with the hit counter still stuck on 1895. I start a new post. I know what I’m going to do.

 

_You are a bloody wanker. A complete idiot. You owe me an explanation. Also, you left your umbrella here and I don’t know what to do with it._

I get a text message from a blocked number 12 minutes after my post.

_Out and up._

I stick my head out of the nearest window and look up. There’s that same blue and white bird nesting in a tree near a window 3 floors above me. It lands at a window near the end, rapping at the glass as it is wont to do. The bird’s persistence is rewarded. I squint. A dark colored scarf billows out of the window. I frown.

_Are you looking?_

I look down to check the message for a split second. When I look back up again, the bird is nowhere to be seen, but there is a yellow smiley face sprayed on the glass.

_Apt. 5124. Tomorrow 6:30 AM. Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway._

_\--SH_

 

A series of text messages follows:

_All this time and you live in the same building? How did I not see you???_

_The excess of punctuation is unnecessary. You see but do not observe._

_You’re impossible._

_Not impossible, just highly improbable._

_I need to go to bed now. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Apparently._

_Sleep is for the weak. Boring._

_Good night_

_Good night John._

I brush my teeth and use a bit of mouthwash afterwards. The sink is starting to look a bit moldy, so I resolve to give the bathroom a thorough cleaning next Friday. I lay out my clothes for the next day, same as always—a nicely pressed jumper, a dark red button down, and an old pair of jeans. There’s a ticket stub for a movie I went to a few weeks back, a dry cleaning bill, and a folded up grocery list in the pants pocket. I fish them out, tossing them into the wastebasket purposefully.

 

Tomorrow will be just another day. I’ll have coffee with a dead man, pick up my dry cleaning, have brunch with that resident from Radiology, and maybe break open a bottle of porter at the end of the day. I’ve got plans, with a woman, even. But I think that I wouldn’t mind canceling them if the need arose.

 

I can’t believe it. Sherlock had looked different—older, had a bit more meat on his bones (but he was still far from fat), clad in dress pants and a loose fitting button down. His hair was straightened, luxurious and almost coiffed. But Sherlock would never do that. Right? He looked almost like a movie star trying to go incognito, all (seemingly) effortless glamour. I felt so scruffy next to him in my moth-eaten sweat pants and unwashed hair. He’s changed. We both have. But how much, is the question I’m wondering. Does he still take his coffee black with two sugars? Does he still iron his dress pants fastidiously every Saturday morning? Does he still keep his most important experiment in the bathroom cabinet next to the shaving cream?  

 

I find myself unable to fall asleep. I’m kept busy with imaginings of tomorrow—hypothetical scenarios that get me into a state of hypersensitive agitation. I really don’t know what to expect anymore, but I feel a buoyant sensation in my chest, like I could float right up to the ceiling at a moment’s notice. I feel alive, insecure, and maybe a little crazy. For the first time in years I feel exhilarated—like I’m getting more oxygen, like breathing is so much easier. Even if it’s all a bust I think this will be good for me. I’ve been playing the same song on repeat for so long that I know all the words and no longer remember any of the sentiment. This has helped me get out of a rut. Even if Sherlock eventually fades into the background in that chameleon way of his, I think that I’ve changed. Will change. It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself to really think about the stuff of dreams, but tonight I do. If what I had with Sophie is any indication, I’m rubbish at traditional relationships. But maybe this time I’ll get something better. I breathe out heavily through my nose and trace little stars into the ceiling with my pinky.

 

The best part always comes after the so-called happy ending, filled with streamers and metaphorical fireworks and all of that crap. The big kiss, the big reveal, the “I do.” I’m more interested in the credits; that’s where it all starts. I’ve never gotten to the _ever after_ part of life before, but I’m willing to believe in it. Sure it’s mythical and rare and some cynics will claim that it doesn’t exist, but I do. I flip over onto my stomach after this thought, to turn the alarm clock away from my face. The neon green numbers unnerve me with their accusatory reminder that I’m losing sleep. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I adjust my pillow one last time. As I finally settle down into sleep, covered in layers of cotton comforter and optimistic sentiment, I think _maybe._ Just _maybe_.  

 


End file.
